And I am used to it
by beenworkingonacoktail
Summary: A possible take on Fai and his attitude to hunger, from Valeria to Infinity. Because I’ve always wondered about how Fai’s time in the Valley affected him physically. Vague Kurogane x Fai


**Title**: And I am used to it  
**Pairing**: Kurogane x Fai, pre-slash I guess.  
**Words**: 1629  
**Rating**: PG-13?  
**Genre**: Pseudo-Angst. (Yes. I went there.)  
**Spoilers**: Fai's backstory.  
**Disclaimer**: I own nothing; Clamp does. Isn't that lovely?

**Summary/****Notes**: A possibly very skewed take on Fai and his attitude to hunger, from Valeria to Infinity. Sort of. Because I've always wondered about how Fai's time in the Valley affected him physically (really, there was nothing to eat or drink but he didn't die, and actually grew) As always, this actually made some sense when I started it. Not anymore, though :(

* * *

There are few things that Fai remembers from the time _before_.

There are the words of his uncle and the whispers of the Court, and there is the touch of his brother's hand; the smile of his mother and the shadow of his father's shape. There are, always and everywhere, the white and the cold, the sight of the sky, and the feel and knowledge of _the_ _other_. But the slow passage of time in the Valley washes over all things, and he has only momentary flashes of images and smells, nothing that he wants to remember, and yet nothing that he would take pains to forget. It is something remote and passed, the cause, the start, but nothing more.

Fai can't even remember if he'd ever felt hungry then, although he thinks he must have been, must have hungered for food before they'd taken them, throwing him down in the below, locking his brother up above, because for all the years and months and ever flowing, ever stopped time that had gone by him, by them, by the dead, there'd been a gnawing and a scraping in his belly, dull and aching and there, an emptiness, a lack, and he had _needed_.

He'd thought that it was loneliness.

It was quiet in the valley, quiet and cold and still. The air smelled of nothing, and nothing moved unless he dragged it to the wall to pile and climb and stand over and fall down from, over and again, scraping, tearing, bleeding, and his fingers were always red, his nails all torn and chapped, his knees bruised and his elbows battered, and his hair growing long, longer, dirty, matted and frayed.

Fai was always above and locked, and Fai could barely see the sky, barely see him, and he couldn't see Fai at all, only hear his voice now and then, quiet and tired and raw, even when he screamed and sobbed out his name. The tower face could not be climbed – he'd tried; he'd tried and tried and fallen no more than two hand-widths up from the ground – but the wall could be taken, if only he could hold out long enough, if only he could reach, and then he could get out and look for help, and then he'd break the tower, and he and Fai could leave this place and find another, if only he could reach, if only he could climb. And he'd fall down, and Fai would call his name, and their throats would be raw and bleeding.

He'd hunger and he'd want, and the need would be constant, through the growth of his bones and the lengthening of his reach, higher and higher still but so, so little, all in vain, and he'd thought it was purpose, drive, the will to go, to leave, to see Fai once again – had _he_ grown? had _his_ reach lengthened? – and he'd banked on it, used it, thought of it as he'd tried, tried, tried. And after he had read the words, and after the blood had been shed, and after just the two of them had been the only two ones left, after he hadn't wanted anything at all, because what could he want, what could he do, and _why_, why leave and where to go and why were they the cause, _after_, he'd lain on his back in the dirty snow and stared into the sky and felt the ache and emptiness, and hadn't understood it.

After he'd – they'd – been brought to Celes, he had been washed and clothed and his cuts had been cleaned and bound – there had been cold, there had been warmth, and sounds and smells and movement – the ache had grown, and he had thought it guilt. Guilt, blame, and madness, all rolled up in a curse, uselessness and no reasons, and the sight of his brother, so still and locked up once again, locked up below and seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing, and he was hollow and aching and starved, and there was nothing different.

Ashura-ou had someone bring him soup, and one part of the aches died down while all the others grew and grew.

Over the years, hunger remained something that he was used to feel, burning low at the back of everything, down in his gut, remote, and, with so much to learn and do, it would be hours before he'd pay it any mind, not because he'd be punishing himself, denying himself in any way, but because it just didn't matter. Nothing mattered enough when _there had been so_ _much_, and _there would be so much_, and having always felt it, for years and months and days, it was too easy to ignore, too easy to forget, until it finally dug deep enough to hurt, to bother, to distract – and then he would go to the kitchens and have a late, quick meal, put it aside, and start everything once again.

For the longest of times food meant little to him. He ate because of custom, shared dinners and breakfasts that were brought to his chambers, because there was no point not to, and, after all, he couldn't come to harm, there were things that were his to do, for the bargain, for the people, for the king, and there was little point in weakening himself. But as he slowly learned to live, to smile and to act around people, as the days lost their stiltedness and they flowed easily over a shining surface, he learned how to appreciate the different tastes and textures, the sweetness of cream, the burning of drink, the prick and sting of spices. There was a certain richness in the flavour and smell of freshly baked bread, of venison roasted over a fire, of honeyed tea and mead, and Fai could understand what it meant to look forward to it.

And yet, and still, even with all his newfound likes, hunger was still too easily ignored. That weakness in the pit of him was nothing, and there were far too many things to do, too many books to read and spells to learn and try and try and fail to master, he cared too much about the other things, and however much _fun_ it was when the mood hit, however interesting to make and share, food and the need for it could always be forgotten.

That's why Fai thought that he could bear it.

When he was changed in Tokyo, and hunger and its quelling took on another meaning, became sickly and dangerous, a reminder of what he didn't want, Fai thought he could ignore it as before, move past, trample it down. There would be weakness and his gut would twist, his arms and shoulders would be heavy, his temples would throb while he'd try to focus and he'd need deep breaths to push down the queasiness and ache – but he would manage. He knew the troubles and the feel of everything, and what is known is more easily born. Eventually, he would still need to feed – to drink, the change took over everything – but it would be a long, long time from now.

But Fai is wrong.

He doesn't feel lacking something as he does being overwhelmed. The need, the want, the craving, it burrows into every thought and flows over his every move, and it feels natural and easy to reach over to Kurogane, to grasp, and slash his claws, and sink his teeth, and take. He can hear the man's heartbeat, feel it against his own skin when they stand less than two, three feet apart. He can smell Kurogane's scent, and Fai can't even breathe. The sound of his voice and his footsteps are too close and too far away, and Fai is so _aware_, and everything in him would like to lunge and hold and press against. There is a numb pain from behind his eyes, and he hates Kurogane, hates that he wants and needs him, hates that the ninja hadn't even stopped to think, that he offers himself without fear and without a catch, that he needles and prods and cares.

And Fai has learned and re-learned many things, but this he doesn't want to. Doesn't want to get used to the taste and the warmth of blood, to having Kurogane's wrist a mass of scars from days of cutting, to having Kurogane _there_, helping Fai up when Fai cannot be trusted, when Fai can't even trust himself, when Fai's supposed to damn them all and doesn't think he can, but doesn't speak of what he knows either. He thinks himself a traitor, and he has lived on borrowed time so long that this extension of his life, paid for by the people he should eventually betray, makes him shiver with guilt just as he wants to moan at the needlessness of it – it could have ended, easily, but he must still go on.

And Fai feels sick with hunger and with thirst, and he feels sick because of them, and neither sickness is so easily ignored.

His fingers itch and his skin crawls, and when the matches start in the country of chess he is grateful for the distraction, though Kurogane's always there, always too close, always too far, and being chained against him makes Fai want to claw at his arms – better that than anything else. And Kurogane waits, and looks at him as if he knows, and Fai hates him for making time work in his favour, hates his heartbeat and breaths and how easily he can count them now, and hates the certain knowledge that soon, soon, he will feed; and he wants the meal to mean nothing, because there is still so much more to do.

* * *


End file.
